


Foot Trails Of Some Lost Lonely Souls

by riwriting



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale takes care of a very drunk Crowley, Confessions, Crowley is drunk, Crowley poses as a lawyer, Pre-Apocalypse, a homophobe tries to start a fight in a bar, discussing the end of the world, discussions of Ep 3 scenes, here be heavy discussions, mentions of faustian bargains, to stand with your friend?, uses book canon, uses tv canon, would you betray your side?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 20:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19875352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riwriting/pseuds/riwriting
Summary: Sometimes, the humans horrify Crowley and he deals with it by getting drunk.  Aziraphale comes to find him."It was another one of those things that he knew, but that he usually forgot.  He met Aziraphale for lunch and to feed the ducks and to discuss things like Aziraphale's hatred of customers.  He'd helped Aziraphale out of some tight spots, and Aziraphale repaid the favor.  They had an Arrangement.  None of that, though, changed the truth.  Aziraphale wasn't a book store owner.  He was an angel, a Principality.  And Crowley was a demon."





	Foot Trails Of Some Lost Lonely Souls

**2005 A.D.**

Who knows what evil lurks within the hearts of humans? The members of the bar surely did. It took a certain type of bastard to do that type of work.

Crowley stared at the glass sitting on a different type of bar. A better bar. The type that didn't include barristers. The glass was 2/3 empty. That, he knew, was too empty. He motioned to the bartender to refill his drink.

If he was being honest, Crowley didn't _want_ to do this type of work. He preferred his usual fare. Give the humans the right conditions, give them a choice, and let them take it from there. It might not be the sort of classic corruption some of the more traditional demons preferred, but it _worked._ He got results. He was good enough at it that, despite not even being a local counselor of hell, he was usually given free reign to make up his own trouble as he went. That was just fine with Crowley. He didn't want to do the sort of work other demons were drawn to – the type where you worked _in conjunction_ _with_ the humans.

“Can you leave the bottle?” Crowley tried to ask the bartender. It came out more like “cannuhleeboll?” He switched to the universal language and placed two high denomination bills on the bar. The bottle stayed.

He knew – had known for a long time – that humans could come up with truly horrendous things and had no qualms doing those things to other humans. They made Hell look like amateur hour. When he could, Crowley avoided the type of work that forced him to be present when humans were at their worst. The humans you had to work with in that particular path of Evil were extremely unpleasant. A normal person, upon hearing this, might think it was the murderers that got to Crowley – and they were bad, but they weren't the worst. At least everyone  _knew_ what they were. No, it was the ones who everyone thought were the nice, upstanding members of society while they did terrible things to other humans in the name of Greed and Pride and Gluttony that were the real monsters – like the ones Crowley had just spent the past few months with. One of the newer field agents had a penchant for old school Faustian bargains. He was also young (for a demon), inexperienced, and, like most demons, lacked the sort of imagination required to write Faustian bargains without loopholes. He'd made a contract for the souls of the entire executive team of a large and important company, but Hell could only collect if the contracting parties avoided liability in a rather nasty piece of litigation.

Hell wanted to collect.

The stakes were too high – there were too many powerful souls, and having them in Hell's pockets to control before they left the Earth behind was too good to pass up. Collection needed to happen, and to collect meant winning the case, which meant getting the jury to doubt.

That sounded like a tall order, especially considering that the defendants very clearly did the things they were accused of doing. The thing about doubt, however, is that it is a lot easier to create than most people think. In the end, it comes down to asking the right questions. The right questions can make a human's mind go  _“oh, wait a minute, but what if....?_ ” Of course, just because the concept of asking the right questions is easy doesn't mean the application always is. Asking the right questions is an art form. When the stakes are high, you want a master artist doing your asking.

And no one could ask the right questions like Crowley. The Serpent of Eden had a nearly perfect Tempting record where asking questions was involved. This was, what they call, a “no brainer.” Hell called in the assignment. Crowley went. You didn't say no to assignments, no matter how distasteful. You couldn't - not if you wanted continued existence.

Which was how Crowley found himself asking questions in front of the humans in the jury box all while secretly hoping they were smart enough to see what he was doing.

They were not.

Contrary to what Hell said, it didn't feel like a victory.

And now, he was “celebrating” - alone – by getting bloody drunk. He should probably go back to his flat, except he wasn't sure what he'd do there. He had no intention of sobering up any time soon, and his flat wasn't exactly...well, it wasn't the sort of place a person went to get blindingly drunk. Eh. It was raining, anyway, and he just bought himself the rest of the bottle of this...this...shit what was he drinking again? It didn't matter. The drinking part was the important bit, and whatever it was, it was alcohol. He tilted his head back and drained his glass.

Setting the glass on the bar, he reached for the bottle to get a refill when something absurd happened: the door opened and Aziraphale stepped in out of the rain. Crowley forced his eyes to blink. When Aziraphale simply shook the rain from his umbrella and slid its strap over one arm, Crowley tilted his head forward to look over the top of his sunglasses.

It was most definitely Aziraphale. He was wearing the sweater vest Crowley had bought him two years ago in Scotland when Crowley lost a coin flip and had to perform both their tasks per the Arrangement. It had been the ugliest tartan he could find, he'd brought it back as a joke, and Aziraphale was wearing it. Only Aziraphale....

What the heaven was an angel doing in a place like this? Crowley had chosen it because it was a run down, trashy establishment and fit his mood. It wasn't the sort of place Aziraphale liked to frequent.

Wait.

Crowley fumbled for his cell phone. He hadn't drunk dialed Aziraphale, had he? He didn't  _remember_ making any calls, but there were large chunks of the evening that were a bit foggy. His fingers felt clumsy as he flipped the phone open and tried to find his last call in the log.

Some commotion pulled his attention away from the phone. Near the entrance, a group of young men had detached themselves from a game of pool. One stepped directly in Aziraphale's way. Crowley blessed under his breath. The men had been getting loud and belligerent all night and were spoiling to cause trouble. Usually, he wouldn't care beyond considering whether to write it up and take credit for whatever trouble such a group decided to make. Usually, he was drinking alone in a corner and Aziraphale wasn't in the middle of it.

Crowley couldn't tell what was being said, but the body language of the man standing in Aziraphale's path suggested it was nothing pleasant. He leaned against his cue stick, towering over the angel as he puffed up his shoulders and projected intimidation while his friends laughed at whatever it was he was saying. Aziraphale, for his part, looked nonplussed. He tried to move around the larger man, only to have the man hold out the cue stick horizontally against Aziraphale's stomach, forcing him to stop. Crowley blessed again. He needed to do something. These people weren't the sorts Aziraphale was used to dealing with. They were the sort who liked brawling in a back alley, not debating the finer points of prophesies found in ancient tomes. Crowley stood up, tried to take a step towards the group, and immediately tripped over one of the legs of his bar stool. He clattered to the floor in an undignified heap.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale took advantage of the interruption to push the cue stick away and step past the man. It sounded like he said, “Are you alright?” but it was hard to make out when the man Aziraphale ignored was now shouting a slur at his back to get his attention.

What happened next happened both quickly and agonizingly slow. The man from the group of malcontents grabbed at Aziraphale's shoulder and swung him around so they were facing each other. When Aziraphale shrugged him off and once again tried to move to where Crowley was sprawled on the floor, the man swung the cue stick towards Aziraphale's head. Crowley thought he might have called out; he wasn't sure. It didn't matter. Aziraphale blocked the cue stick with one hand and, in a single, fluid motion, removed it from its owner. His movement flowed into using his free hand to catch the man's arm in a defensive hold before directing his attacker to rest face forward on the pool table.

There were things that Crowley had known for six thousand years. For example, Crowley knew that Aziraphale was a Principality. He knew that Principalities, generally, were guardians, and that Aziraphale, in particular, had been chosen to guard one of the gates of Eden. Basic logic dictated that you had to be one of the best guardians to get the Really Important Guardian Jobs, and, as Aziraphale's post was such a job, this meant that Aziraphale was likely as good at guardian tasks as Crowley was at asking questions.

In his daily life, however, Crowley sometimes forgot that he knew those things. He got used to Aziraphale: his fussy friend who liked books and bistros and symphonies. If he thought about Aziraphale and weapons at all, it was nothing more than remembering that Aziraphale gave his weapon away to humans once, many years ago, and didn't seem to have any desire to acquire a new one. He didn't think about what Aziraphale actually  _was_ and what that  _meant_ .

It was kind of hard to forget those facts now, as Aziraphale calmly held his attacker face down against the pool table. A lesser being would have taken a few shots at the man in the process of introducing him to said pool table, but other than the simple disabling hold Aziraphale was using, the angel hadn't done anything that could cause harm. Even the hold wouldn't hurt the man unless, of course, he tried to fight against it.

He needed to help Aziraphale. Had he been thinking more rationally, he would have understood that there was nothing to help  _with_ . The attempted fight was over. Aziraphale had things under control. A large man who had to be some sort of bouncer was now taking over and removing Cue Stick Sword Fighter from the premises. Crowley's brain, however, insisted he get up and try to help.

He focused on removing his foot from where it was tangled with the stool. This was a good first step. He'd barely gotten it free when a set of hands reached under his arms and hauled him to his feet with an, “Alright, Crowley. Up you get.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said. It came out more like  _“Ssssserfl.”_

“Does he have an open tab?” Aziraphale asked the bartender, as if he regularly showed up in seedy bars, fended off angry men, and rescued drunk demons.

“Paid as he went.” The bartender nodded at the unfinished liquor bottle. “He paid for that, too.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale made no move to take the bottle. Instead, he propped Crowley against the stool and patted at the pockets of his friend's ridiculously expensive suit jacket. It tickled. A moment later, Aziraphale's hand slid into one of the front pockets and reemerged with the keys to the Bentley. His other arm wrapped around Crowley's waist for support. “Come on. Let's get you home.”

“That's for the car,” Crowley tried to say. There was a lot of excess hissing involved. He felt mildly pleased he knew what the keys were for, and it seemed that Aziraphale understood that the keys were necessary for Crowley to drive them home.

“Yes, I know.” Aziraphale pressed his umbrella into one of Crowley's hands. “Hold that.”

Crowley obeyed. “How'd you know I was here?” He let himself be led through the bar. “Didn call you.” His brain tried to work through that again. “Don' thin I called you?”

“You did not call me. Your case made the evening newspaper,” Aziraphale explained. “And then I did some detective work.” He paused to thank the man Crowley had tentatively identified as the bouncer before hauling Crowley out into the rain.

The rain felt strangely good. Crowley tilted his head back and let it splash against his face. He felt hot. The rain did not. It was nice.

“Here we are.” There was the sound of Aziraphale opening a car door.

Crowley let himself be deposited into the back seat of the Bentley. It smelled nice – like old leather that had been properly cared for. He flopped onto his back and shut his eyes. A nap before driving them to someplace not-the-bar would also be nice. He heard the front door open and close. Aziraphale must have gotten into the passenger seat. “I won the cassse,” he told Aziraphale.

“Yes. I know,” Aziraphale's voice replied. It sounded like it was coming from the wrong direction.

Crowley should probably sober up some, but then he'd have to think more about the case and he didn't want to do that. “Wasss terrible,” he said instead. “Thossse people were terrible. Made a deal – sssoulssss for getting to keep all their money. Head Officsse isss thrilled.”

Aziraphale was silent. He was probably disgusted with Crowley. Crowley knew  _he_ was disgusted with himself and he was a demon. He could only imagine what all that sounded like to an angel. And not just any angel – one that was supposed to guard people. 

The Bentley's engine roared to life. Freddie Mercury's voice began to croon from the stereo. There was a sound as if Aziraphale was hitting at something and the music cut off.

Something was wrong. Crowley's mind couldn't quite figure out  _what_ the something was until the Bentley lurched. This time, he made it all the way to sitting up when he tried. Aziraphale was behind the wheel of his car. What. The. Heaven. Crowley reached forward as if this would somehow cause their positions to change. Instead, all he managed to do was snag a hand on Aziraphale's rain jacket. “You can't drive. Stop. Lemme drive.”

“You are drunk,” Aziraphale told him. “I know you had a bad day, so I am not going to ask you to sober up, but you are not driving when you cannot stand.”

“No, Angel. Lemme drive.” Crowley tried again. “I should drive. Isssmycar.” Bless it, he was so articulate earlier when he was talking to that jury, and now he couldn't find an argument for why someone else should not be allowed to drive his car.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale's hand swatted at him, “If you keep distracting me, I will crash. Now, lie down and be quiet until we get home.”

Normally, he did not do what Aziraphale asked him to do unless he wanted to do it. He didn't take orders from angels. Taking orders from Hell was bad enough. He certainly wasn't going to take them from the enemy....

Enemy.

Why did that feel so shocking? It was true. Oh, but it felt like it was crushing his lungs. He didn't want to sit up anymore. He didn't want to be awake anymore. Maybe he should take another nap. Naps were good. Long naps – the sort that blocked out years or decades – those naps were the best. Crowley slid back until he was lying on the seat once more. It didn't stop the thought from playing over and over in his mind.

Aziraphale was his enemy.

It was another one of those things that he knew, but that he usually forgot. He met Aziraphale for lunch and to feed the ducks and to discuss things like Aziraphale's hatred of customers. He'd helped Aziraphale out of some tight spots, and Aziraphale repaid the favor. They had an Arrangement. None of that, though, changed the truth. Aziraphale wasn't a book store owner. He was an angel, a Principality. And Crowley was a demon.

Aziraphale was his enemy.

Aziraphale was his enemy, and some day - maybe not today, or next week, or next year – but some day, the final battle would occur. The forces of Heaven would face off against the forces of Hell. He might be ordered to kill Aziraphale or Aziraphale might be ordered to kill him.

There had been times, over the years, when Crowley received an assignment that was absolutely horrible and he'd ask himself whether it could get worse. Was this the absolute worst thing Hell could force him to do? If not, what would that worst thing be?

And now he knew. Hell could order him to kill his best friend. He'd likely sort of known, somewhere, deep within the recesses of his mind, that this could happen. If it did, hopefully he'd fail. He'd much rather die at Aziraphale's hands than the other way around....

“Come on, Crowley.” Suddenly hands were pulling him off the seat and out of the car. “We need to get you inside.” Inside? Were they there? He hadn't even noticed they'd stopped moving. Of course, with how slow Aziraphale drove, it was difficult to tell the difference. But now Aziraphale was pulling him out of the little ball he'd managed to wind himself into and out into the rain once more.

The rain didn't feel nice this time. It was cold and wet and felt like the earth was crying. The door to the bookstore was standing open, though, and the lights were on. Crowley didn't have a home – not really. His flat was just the place he stayed. If he had one, though, he was pretty sure that coming home would look something like this.

He let Aziraphale direct him inside and half listened when the angel told him to “wait right there, Crowley.” Once Aziraphale left to go back into the rain and close the car door, though, Crowley let himself slide to the floor and curl up on the nearest rug. This was nice. This rug was nice. Maybe he could just live here now.

Shoes appeared in his line of vision. “Are you willing to move to the couch?”

“Nnnf,” Crowley said.

The shoes disappeared. Hm. Maybe Aziraphale really would just let him stay here. It was more than Crowley deserved. Crowley was a demon and Aziraphale should not even be kind to him. He most certainly shouldn't be going out in the rain and dealing with a violent bastard in a shitty bar because Crowley had gotten himself drunk. And...and...there was a point, Crowley was sure, as to where this was going....

Someone picked up his head and then placed it on a pillow. A blanket was laid over him. A hand took his and directed it above his head. “There's a glass of water right here.” The hand laid his fingers against the glass so he knew where it was. “Can I take your sunglasses and put them someplace safe so you don't break them in your sleep?”

“Nnnfsss!” Crowley reached for his sunglasses to hold them in place. If Aziraphale took them, Aziraphale might remember he was a demon and his foggy mind was quite sure that would be something that would not end well for him.

“Crowley, I  _know_ you're a demon,” Aziraphale said.

Oh. He'd said that out loud.

The air in the shop shifted. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel when Aziraphale sat down next to him. There was a long silence. Crowley's drunk brain took the opportunity to begin oscillating between wanting to drink more and wondering when Aziraphale was going to tell him just how horrible he was.

“Do you remember the Flood?” Aziraphale's voice was so soft when he finally did speak that Crowley almost didn't hear it.

He wasn't sure what that had to do with anything, but, “Yesssss.”

“We were ordered to stand aside,” Aziraphale continued. “We weren't even supposed to  _be_ there.”

Aziraphale  _was_ there, though. He'd repeated all the party lines at Crowley when Crowley asked him about it. Crowley hadn't realized the angel wasn't supposed to be there at all. He wondered why Aziraphale had shown up, and if the rational was something similar to why he gave away his sword. “Didn kick ya out fur that?”

“No.” There was a pause. “A letter was added to my file, of course, but all I did was watch. I didn't interfere, so....” Aziraphale let out a heavy breath. “I didn't interfere,” he repeated softly. Crowley didn't think he had ever heard a voice hold as much sorrow as Aziraphale's did.

He opened his eyes. Aziraphale was lying on his side a few feet away, head cushioned on one arm. His face was mostly blank, but his eyes looked wretched. He was holding his hand in front of his face, turning it one way, then other, as if it was fascinating, before finally clenching it into a fist and placing it on the floor. Questions sprung to the front of Crowley's mind. Why had Aziraphale gone when he had been told to stand aside? Why was Aziraphale telling him this now? “Why?”

“Because,” he replied, his voice now barely above a whisper, “I saw what happened to angels who disobeyed. And I was scared.”

That wasn't what he meant. His question-asking ability sure did go down hill when he was drunk. But now that a new can of worms was open, a few of the weird puzzle pieces he'd wondered about over the centuries slid into place and more questions began to spill out. “How many otherssss...?”

Aziraphale shut his eyes as if in pain. “I don't keep count.”

There had been times before the Arrangement when he'd run into Aziraphale watching terrible things happen. It had been easier in those times to try to paint the angel as the same sort of cold, uncaring beings who had measured Crowley and found him Evil. The reality – that he had been like Crowley, sometimes following orders he did not want to follow – made Crowley wonder how many  _other_ ways the angel was like him. Slowly, he removed his sunglasses, folded them up, and placed them above his head near where the water glass was supposed to be. He rolled onto his side so he was facing Aziraphale. The angel was now watching him, tension strung through his shoulders. He was, Crowley realized, waiting for Crowley to judge  _him_ . 

“Ssssometimesss,” Crowley confessed instead, “I tell you thingsss I'm doing in hopesss that you thwart me.” It was the sort of confession that, if Hell learned of it, would end very badly for Crowley. Talking to an angel was one thing. Manipulating an angel into canceling out your Bad Deeds was something else – the sort of something else that, if discovered, would be dealt with in ways that involved unbearable amounts of hurt just prior to the cessation of existence. “Not all of the thingsss,” he added, “Just the onesss that...that needabe ssstopped.”

“Because if I thwart you,” Aziraphale finished the thought, “You haven't disobeyed. You can't be punished.”

Crowley nodded into the thick silence that settled between them. It wasn't all the time – it wasn't even most of the time – it was just sometimes....sometimes an assignment asked too much. He needed an out.

“Sometimes,” Aziraphale admitted, “I do the same.”

He'd suspected that. Hearing it confirmed was...well, it was nice. He felt less  _alone._ Someone else got it. It also answered some questions. There had been a number of things, over the centuries, that he'd suspected there were more to than what Aziraphale presented. For example, he certainly never believed the angel had been in France just for the crepes. He considered asking a round of new questions – about that time, about other times – and forced the questions away. Asking put Aziraphale in danger. Aziraphale was already in enough trouble if Heaven found out he helped Crowley. 

“It isssn' right, ya know.” Had he been sober, he might have thought twice about uttering it. Perhaps. He'd noticed that he started developing a bad habit of being too honest around Aziraphale. He might have said it anyway. “We should getta choossse if we take an asssignment. They shouldn' forcsse usss.”

“Don't say that,” Aziraphale said quickly.

Okay, in retrospect, he probably shouldn't have voiced that one. Those were the types of thoughts and questions that got him kicked out of Heaven. Well, okay, they'd been a _part_ of it, at least.

“There's a lot we don't know,” Aziraphale continued. “And, and maybe-”

Crowley interrupted. “Please don't talk abou'the Great Plan.”

“I'm not going to.”

“I hate it,” Crowley said.

“I know.”

“The world'sss gonna end one day,” Crowley finally got to the worst bit.

Aziraphale's eyes somehow managed to look sadder. “I know.”

“You're an angel,” Crowley stated the obvious, “An I'mma demon.”

“I  _know_ , Crowley.” This time, Aziraphale's voice took on an edge. “Do you think I've never thought about that?”

“I try not to,” he admitted. “I don' wanna fight you. You're only frien I have.”

The truth temporarily deflated whatever argument was brewing. Aziraphale looked like he wanted to cry. Crowley suspected he looked pretty much the same himself. It wasn't  _fair_ , but when had Plans and Heaven and Hell been about fair? Crowley wouldn't put it past their respective Head Offices to know Crowley and Aziraphale were friends and to gleefully plan to force them to fight each other when the time came.

“The end,” Aziraphale's voice sounded strangely calm, “Might not happen for years. Millennia, even.”

“Asss if that makess it better,” Crowley hissed at him. He was being unfair. He couldn't help it.

“I don't have any say in it, either, you know.” Aziraphale snapped. “Do you think I  _like_ this?”

No. No rational being should. It was just...there was rational and rational. A rational person shouldn't think that killing their only friend was an option. At the same time, Heaven could rationalize that Crowley was dangerous, just like Hell could rationalize that Aziraphale was dangerous. Both could rationalize that Something Needed To Be Done, and that they had People trained to handle this sort of thing and the People were....

He  _understood_ them, sometimes. Understood how they got from Point A to Point B. In the end, that sort of reasoning was everywhere. It was all a matter of  _framing_ . It was how he knew how to get that jury to think  _well, what if...?_ It didn't make it  _right_ , understanding. Sometimes, it even made things scarier. “Mmsssorry.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Do you thin' you'd do it?” Crowley asked. “In the end? If...?” And there it was – the real eternal question. _Would you kill me if they ordered you to?_

“Do you?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley would like to think he would be brave enough to choose his friend. Not because it was the right thing to do, but because it was Aziraphale. He wasn't sure he would be, though, so he replied, “Asssked you firsst.”

“I don't have an answer.” Aziraphale sighed deeply. “There's what I hope I would do, but...I suppose you don't really  _know_ , not until you're there, in the moment.”

That was true. You could say you were brave, but most people, given the choice between protecting themselves and some other option, would choose to save their own hides every time. Survival was an extremely powerful motivator. Crowley was good at it. Aziraphale was, too. They were similar creatures, that way. Almost human, now that he thought about it.

“If you're not going to sober up,” Aziraphale said in a tone that left no room for argument that the conversation – confession – whatever it was, was now over. “You should at least sleep. Are you sure you don't want to move to the couch?”

“Mmm fine here.” Crowley motioned towards him. “You gonna watch me sssleep?”

“I'm going to go read,” Aziraphale replied, “Once I'm sure you're alright.”

“Mmm fine, Angel.” Crowley let himself roll onto his back. It made the room spin. Huh. Still drunk, then. He contemplated sobering up and decided to put it off for a bit more. These things would still be there in the morning, after all. He listened to Aziraphale climbing to his feet and start shuffling around the shop. He shut his eyes and tugged on the blanket. It was a warm blanket. It probably was some ridiculous tartan pattern, but it was fuzzy and soft and he liked it. “Sssrphel?”

“Yes?”

“Thanksss.” For knowing he would be self destructing. For looking for him. For getting him home safely. For taking care of him. For listening. For being the sort of real friend Crowley saw some humans be to each other. “For blanket.”

“Of course.” There was a rustling as Aziraphale opened a book somewhere nearby. “Anytime.”

Crowley listened as a few pages were slowly turned. “Sssrphel?”

“Hmm?”

He needed to ask. He couldn't just not ask questions. He wanted answers, wanted to know. What was going to happen? Would it be the worst, or would they be able to choose? How did you even ask that? Other than, well, how he'd asked it before. How did you ask it safely, then? How did you ask it to  _know?_ And maybe that was part of the problem – Crowley couldn't know. He knew he wanted to choose Aziraphale, though. If that was an option, he wanted to be the sort of person who could choose that one. He wanted to be  _strong enough_ to choose that one. So he asked, “Do you think we can be brave?”

There was a long pause. The pages stopped moving. The air stopped, and it became so quiet Crowley could hear the electricity buzzing in the lights. Finally, Aziraphale said, “I hope, in the end, we can be.”

_Aziraphale held out his hand. “Nice knowing you,” he said._

_Crowley took it. “Here's to the next time,”...._

    * Good Omens (p. 441)




**Author's Note:**

> \- Crowley's description of his punishment, should Hell learn of what he's been up to, as well as his description of his position in the hellish hierarchy is paraphrased from the novel
> 
> \- The quote from the book is from the scene where they decide to face the end of the world together and join hands. this one was a little darker than what I usually share with the fandom. I hesitated to post it; it's been sitting on my hard drive for more than a week now. It's meant to resolve happily - or at least hopefully. While the fic doesn't answer the question, it's intended to be canon compliant, and canon does. They choose each other.
> 
> \- title is a Delta Rae song lyric


End file.
